


The Heart Asks Pleasure First

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Episode Spoilers, F/M, Missing Scene, episode s08e04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-01 13:14:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18801067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: “Jaime,” she says, her hands splayed on his sides. It feels as if she teeters on a precipice, where she must choose whether to flee or fall. She trembles, unsure, until Jaime tips her head onto one hand, his lips sliding across her cheek, down the side of her neck, then back up until his mouth is against her ear.“Brienne,” he breathes, and oh, she falls.Warning: spoilers for episode 8x04





	The Heart Asks Pleasure First

It's better the second time, somehow. Brienne hadn't imagined such a thing was possible, given how good the first time was.

Which is not to say the first time was without issue. Difficult for it to be anything else, her so much a maid she might as well have been a newborn babe for all she knew about such things, him one-handed and drunk and a maid to anyone but his poisonous sister. It had been awkward, strange, sometimes uncomfortable, and yet still altogether the most perfect thing she'd ever experienced, like Jaime knighting her all over again but better, brighter, _more_.

By all rights, she should have believed it would never happen again. Such things existed only once, blooming like some exotic flower at dusk only to fade and crumble into dust at the dawn. It should have been something single and solitary that she treasured, a moment she was grateful to have and never expected to find again.

That would have been the sensible way to view it, but Brienne had awakened knowing he would be in her bed again come nightfall. She’d known he would wait until she retired after supper, that his knock on her door would make her bones vibrate like a bell struck by its clapper. She’d known he would touch her again, kiss her again, make her body come alive again. 

Sensibility seems overrated in the light of such thing.

It had all been so frantic last night, and it starts again that way tonight, tunics yanked off and tossed aside, their lips pushing, their teeth clashing, his feet on her feet on his feet again. Everything is urgent and strong and _now_ until he stops and holds her away by her elbows.

“Wait,” he says, breathing hard. “Wait.” Brienne rears back to examine his face, the sweet jangle in her stomach suddenly turning sour. If he stops now, or Gods forbid, says even the slightest word about Cersei, why… Brienne will kill him. That’s all. She’ll cheerfully run him through with the very sword he gave her and count it an honorable kill.

She waits, rigid, for him to say more, but he only leans into her, slowly this time, and settles his lips onto hers near as softly as a sigh.

Oh. Oh, now that’s different. That’s…wondrous. If she’d thought last night was bright, this is like swallowing the sun. All at once, she melts, sagging against him so that he staggers and has to brace himself to support her weight. She hears his laugh, feels his lips curl into a smile against her own.

“It’s like catching a felled tree,” he says, but there’s no mockery in it, only admiration. For the first time in her life, Brienne’s size doesn’t seem like an embarrassment or a burden. A feeling crystallizes, one that’s been forming since the first moment she fought him, with words and swords. He is her match, in a way no one else could be. It makes him far more dangerous as her friend – as her lover – than he ever was as her enemy.

Does he kiss her for minutes, hours, for only seconds? She can’t tell. They move from the door to her bed, Jaime pushing her down to sit and stepping between her knees to catch her face between his hands and smile down at her.

“Trying to be taller than I am?” she guesses, her voice sounding so rough she almost doesn’t recognize it. His smile turns into that typical Jaime grin, sly, sardonic, like he knows some secret you’re desperate to learn.

“Just after a different perspective,” he says. He kisses her again, tipping her chin up and wrapping one hand around the column of her throat as his mouth covers hers. It’s breathtakingly vulnerable, something Brienne has spent years avoiding. Once, Jaime would have been the last person she could trust in such a way; now he’s the only person she does. It’s terrifying to feel such a thing. Terrifying and exhilarating. Brienne has never been the sort of person to submit, but she thinks she would do anything Jaime asked in this moment. If she’s not careful, she’ll try to give him everything. She’ll want to give him forever, or whatever there is of forever with lives like theirs. 

“Jaime,” she says, her hands splayed along his sides. It feels as if she teeters on a precipice, where she must choose whether to flee or fall. She trembles, unsure, until Jaime tips her head onto one hand, his lips sliding across her cheek, down the side of her neck, then back up until his mouth is against her ear.

“Brienne,” he breathes, and oh, she falls.

He laughs when she pulls him down to the mattress with her, their limbs colliding and tangling. Feathers burst from the ticking at the impact and float up around them in tiny white motes, landing in their hair, sticking to their skin like unmelting snow. She kisses him this time, rolling atop him to map his mouth with her lips and tongue, his cock hard and hot between her parted thighs.

“Now who wants the advantage?” he teases her as she kisses his chin, the broken bridge of his nose, the brackets that frame his smile. She doesn’t think she’s ever seen him smile so much. It’s the sort of thing that would be dangerous if she hadn’t already let herself tumble over the edge.

“Just after a different perspective,” she says, knowing her heart is in her voice, on her face, in the urgent grip of her hands and the press of her body against his.

“Ah, wench.” The name doesn’t sting as it once would have. It almost sounds like an endearment. Like something a man would call the woman he loves. He catches her face between his hands again, his smile so soft she could almost weep. “You were made for this.” Any other time, Brienne – _Brienne the Maid, Brienne the Beauty, Brienne who’ll go to her grave unopened_ – would snort in disbelief, but somehow, in some impossible way, she thinks he might be right.

He makes love to her like that, her on top of him, her knees astride his waist and her mouth pressed to his as she rocks her hips. Instinctively, she knows that it would be easier if she sat up and rode him as she would a horse – and that thought alone will have her blushing and squirming every time she rides a horse from here on out, she thinks – but she can’t bear to be so far away from him. And there’s almost something better in how this keeps pleasure just out of reach, there but too far to grasp just yet. She wants this – him – as long as she can make it last. 

“Take pity on an old man, love,” he groans at length, pushing her to sit up so his good hand can find that perfect spot to stroke and rub. “Some of us haven’t your stamina.” It’s the sort of thing that once would have filled her with shame. She had spent so long being wary of simply _wanting_ , of ever letting anyone believe she thought herself someone who deserved to want. It’s impossible to remember that now, when Jaime matches her wanting with his own, when he groans with admiration as she comes apart, her hands braced on his chest, muscles she never knew she had clenching around him inside her. 

She expects him to pull out when he follows her peak with his own, as he’d done last night, but he holds her as his hips jerk up with enough force that it lifts her off the bed a bit. The sudden throb of him inside her beats a mismatched rhythm with the pounding of his heart against her palm. Warmth floods her, _his_ warmth, and it’s almost more intimate than Brienne can stand. A babe. They could make a babe here between them tonight, and Brienne doesn’t know quite how to feel about it.

“You shouldn’t have” she pants. His hand is still moving between her legs; she can’t help rocking into his touch. 

“I know.” He doesn’t need to ask what she means. His smile is rueful. It leaves too much unsaid between them, opens up too much space for hope. For a possible future. Suddenly emotion closes in on her, crowding her throat and making her eyes sting. In her head, she sees him beside her through the long night, his sword flashing over her shoulder to kill any who would harm her as she did just the same for him. She’s fought against him, fought with him. The idea that she could fight _for_ him, fight to _keep_ him, is too unwieldy for her heart to manage just yet.

Weeks from now, when she wakes to find him gone, she’ll think perhaps it was already too late right from the start.

 

*  
_Title from the piece of the same name by Michael Nyman_


End file.
